


Cultural Differences

by nerddowell



Series: Drabbles + ficlets [6]
Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Monchevy at Saint-Cloud before all the shit goes down, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 06:46:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11352057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: This is literally that 'What have the Romans ever done for us?' Monty Python scene but in 17th Century France.





	Cultural Differences

The salon is empty but for the musician at the harpsichord playing Rossi’s _Settima Toccata_ , the Chevalier (engrossed in haggling with the merchants over the acres of silk he has purchased for new clothes this afternoon), and Philippe himself, lounging on one of the couches with a book. The background noise of the music and the Chevalier’s argumentative tones as he insisted that the price be brought down because ‘as their most loyal customer it was the least he deserved’ soothes Philippe in a manner that is all too rare to find in the palace at Versailles, always bustling with courtiers begging his favours and servants begging his pardon. So naturally, he much prefers things here at Saint-Cloud, his personal retreat and safe haven.

He smothers a laugh into his book as Chenonceaux the silk merchant, more than used to dealing with the Chevalier, reminds him that as his payment more often than not comes from Monsieur’s purse, then surely Monsieur is his most loyal customer, and the Chevalier’s resulting outrage and huffs of temper rise in pitch and tempo in perfect time to the music being teased out of the harpsichord’s buzzing keys.

‘Mignonette, you wound me terribly,’ the Chevalier pouts, forgetting his quarrel with Chenonceaux, who smiles conspiratorially at Philippe from over his beloved’s well-dressed shoulder and begins finally packing his silks away. ‘First you limit me, and now you conspire with the merchants to tease and fluster me into a fit in the middle of the salon!’

‘I tease you only for your own good,’ Philippe tells him, setting the book aside. ‘You are entirely too easy to provoke, and it pleases me to bring you down a few pegs every so often for my own amusement.’

The Chevalier ignores the jibe completely, tossing his curls over his shoulder and turning his attention to the harpsichordist in the far corner of the salon. He raises his voice to address the man directly.

‘And listening to such rubbish! Nothing good has come out of Italy since I left, darling.’ He snaps his fingers at the harpsichordist, instantly quelling the music, and the last note reverberates around the salon for a short moment before trailing away amidst the soft scraping sounds of the stool being pushed back in as the man takes his leave with a deep bow in Monsieur’s direction. Philippe is not looking at the harpsichordist, but at the Chevalier, with one eyebrow raised.

‘Forgive me, but I believe Signor Rossi departed even our dear green Earth before you ever left Italy.’

‘Well, good riddance,’ the Chevalier sniffs, ‘if this is what the Italians think of as high culture. How they pride themselves on the beauty of their art when the best they can offer us is this nonsense and a couple of lecherous priests for the Spanish woman’s harem of cassocked eunuchs–’

‘With speeches like this it’s no wonder the Italians were even less fond of you than you of them,’ Philippe responded. ‘Do you know, Contarini even wrote to Louis begging him to take you back? He said you were insufferable, the embodiment of everything coarse and vulgar about the French court, and a revolting pervert to boot.’

‘Liar!’

‘You’re quite right, he said nothing of the sort,’ Philippe says with a wicked grin, ‘but if he had met you, he would have.’

The Chevalier rolls his eyes and sits on the other end of the couch, pushing Philippe’s legs out of the way. Philippe allows him to move them for only as long as it takes for him to sit down before immediately putting his feet back up in the Chevalier’s lap, ignoring his cry of outrage – ‘You’ll dirty the silks! I insist you desist at once!’ – and going back to his book. He has chance to turn only one page before the Chevalier plucks it out of his hand and frowns at the pages, shooting Philippe an exasperated expression.

‘ _Le Rapt de Proserpine_ , again? You have a pathological secret, mignonette.’

‘That I wouldn’t mind a tall, dark and handsome stranger abducting me from the gardens for an illicit and passionate love affair? Yes, positively criminal.’

‘I don’t believe there was very much love involved, mignonette, and I shall ignore the blatant slight against my golden good looks. Tall, dark and handsome reminds me far too much of how our dear Montespan refers to your brother, and that thought is simply too odious to entertain.’

‘As ever, you ruined it,’ Philippe groans, taking his book back. ‘And in answer to what the Italians have offered us in terms of cultural practise and art, there are the great masters, Botticelli, Michaelangelo, Raphael and so forth, and a certain bedroom practice referred to as the _Italian_ vice which as I recall you are more than fond of–’

‘Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,’ the Chevalier sighs, tossing his hair back. ‘But nowadays they have little more draw than to the priesthood or the sort of chamber music that assaults, rather than pleases, one’s ears. I have no fondness for Italians.’

‘I would hope not,’ Philippe says with a smirk, tracing the tip of a finger over his jaw. ‘I would prefer to keep your excursions out of the country and out of my arms as short and infrequent as possible, and a loathing of the people and culture will no doubt assist me in that.’

‘Louis might send me somewhere worse still next time. Holland, maybe, to irritate William for him. Or England, God forbid. Another four exiled years forced to be spent in a country full of all the disgusting things about life – mud, and shit, and the English – would be sheer torture.’

‘I certainly hope Charles can hear you,’ Philippe says with a short laugh, his eyes sparkling. ‘England and France have been at peace far too long, I feel it must be time for another war.’

‘You’re not to go anywhere near another battlefield whilst I leave and breathe, mignonette,’ the Chevalier insists, and leans in to press a whiskery, tickling kiss to Philippe’s temple. ‘I forbid it.’

‘I would never dream of contradicting your wishes,’ Philippe says in a clearly sarcastic tone, raising one eyebrow and fighting a smile, and the Chevalier laughs, kissing his smirk away and tangling his ring-laden hands into Philippe’s hair.

**Author's Note:**

> The referenced 'Contarini' was the Doge of Venice at the kind of time I'm guessing s2e1 was set (a little before the affair of the poisons (1677–1682)/Monsieur's marriage to Liselotte in 1672. I'm a nerd for that kind of detail, and yet I still have gaping historical plot holes in 90% of my canon era fics because ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
